Pounding Through Your Veins
by Amory Vain
Summary: In which you'd think Adam would've learned by now not to drink so much. Adam Monroe/YED; warnings for implied pre-fic non-con, blood, generally dark themes, and a couple of biblical allusions.


Pounding Through Your Veins [[747 Words]]  
_Heroes/Supernatural_  
Adam/YED (I know, right?)  
Pre-series for both shows.  
Implied (pre-fic) non-con, blood, generally dark themes. Biblical allusions.

* * *

You think he's just another of _those_ at first, one of the men who've seen blonde, boyish, drunk and thought _opportunity_, countless barely-remembered encounters in alleyways, dimly-lit restrooms, bruised knees and protests forced back down your throat, bitterness on your tongue when you wake the next morning. That's what you think, pushed into the backroom by that bartender who's been pouring you triples all night.

"Would you consider taking 'no' for an answer?" you can't help but ask, cheeky to the last, and your words slur together in a way you'll be embarrassed by tomorrow. This man only chuckles and lets go of your arm. You're too drunk to hold yourself up, you should've known that, and you fall back against the wall, sliding down until you're sitting on the floor. You look up at him stupidly, like _well, you've got me now_, and until you blink his eyes look almost yellow at this angle.

He crouches beside you, crowding you back against the brick, and chuckles. "I don't want to fuck you, Adam." Adam? He smells vaguely terrible, like rotten eggs or sulfur; you inhale through your mouth and try to keep from gagging.

"Look," you try, "You seem to have me confused with someone else—"

"I know who you are," he rumbles, emphasizing the _I_ like it's an accusation, and for some reason that terrifies you more than the knife he takes from inside his coat. "You're special. A prototype, I'd call you."

You watch as he presses the blade to his own skin, slicing his palm open, deep enough to cause some serious damage, part of you notes. Blood wells in the gash and he brings the hand to your face, too close, but when you try to turn your head he catches your jaw with his other hand. "You don't remember, but I nursed you like this as a child.

"But it seems to me that you need a second dose."

"What—" your disgust turns to horror when he presses his split skin to your half-open mouth, holding you back against the wall as you struggle, arms pinned by a weight you can't see. You know what he wants you to do, but you fight him, refusing to give in until he pinches your nose shut, cutting off your airways until he feels you comply, gingerly pushing out your tongue to lap at his blood.

"Good," he breathes, breath hot against your face as he finally removes his hand, leans in to either wipe your face clean or smear the red up your cheeks. You just watch him, panting, as he cups your face with stained fingers. He runs his other hand through your hair in mock-affection, he _pets_ you, and smiles. "You'll be the first of many, you know. My _Adam_."

"What is it for?" you can't help but ask, carefully speaking around the sickly-sweet taste in your mouth. It's unnatural, not like blood at all, and you feel dizzy, oddly light.

"For me, of course." He just looks at you then, and his eyes get more yellow every second you stare until he shifts his hands to either side of your face and, with the air of one indulging in something he really shouldn't, he kisses you.

He tastes of ash and decay and that cloying sweetness, and you'd scream if you could because he'll kill you like this, smother you with his tongue and this darkness and that indescribable, barely-checked power. That power's a temptation, just within your reach and it's begging you to succumb, to let him take whatever it is he _really_ wants from you.

You don't give in, though, you can't—not yet, anyway, and he releases you at last with a resigned sigh, lets you double over and vomit, emptying your stomach of alcohols and colored mixers on the floor (tomorrow you'll wonder why it wasn't red, why there was no clotting blood to be seen).

"I'm no pretty _Eve_, I suppose." He touches you, strokes the back of your neck once more, stripes it red before you flinch away and he stands, expression unreadable past the smirk. "Don't stay in Japan forever, Adam. I might need you someday."

He coughs then, black smoke pouring from his lungs as you watch. As the cloud dissipates you scrub a fist across your mouth, grimacing when it comes away sticky and dark. "Adam," you mutter, and your hands aren't shaking, they _aren't_, "that's not even my name."


End file.
